


seaside soliloquies

by mangoberri



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: M/M, man this is a mess. i might clean this up later at some point cries, when you want to write kibadan thoughts but barf this up instead, wow this is drabbly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:40:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27129383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoberri/pseuds/mangoberri
Summary: Third time’s the charm, as they say, but Leon feels it’s only after the fifth he falls into the swing of things.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Kibana | Raihan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	seaside soliloquies

Third time’s the charm, as they say, but Leon feels it’s only after the fifth he falls into the swing of things.

He is fifteen years old, the shining star of Galar. Champion prince, prized heir, a scuffled teen— just a small kid from Postwick growing into the crown he’d won five years ago like some carnival prize, plucked like candy from the hands of a champion fourteen years his senior. 

But it’s not the small plush Wooloo he’d once won for Hop at the Wedgehurst summer carnival: the title was heavy, solid, hard. Then it had slipped easily over his eyebrows, nestled snug behind the ears of his tiny head, digging thin red lines at the tender cartilage there; it hung heavy red curtains over slim, shy shoulders, sagging low. 

He’ll grow into it, Rose tells him. Leon squirms and hopes so: it’s not particularly comfortable.

It was just his first year defending the title. Standing in the middle of the grand, wide pitch, sharp flashes of white— blue— green blink at bright yellow eyes: Leon feels his head spin. Fists clench. Sweat traces his brow. And Rose, a father yet quite not, for all his kind words and guiding hand, stands in his skybox perched high above the stadium, looming far above him.

He is alone.

He is victorious.

But it is close. 

But he grows: slowly but surely. With every passing year, with every Champion Cup, with every fallen challenger. Straightens his back, leans forward to prop himself up on the tips of his toes, holds his head up high— his crown shrinks, or does his head grow? He cannot tell the difference.

The cape is less of a blanket, and more like the proper mantle fit for a king. Broad shouldered, sharp browed, back straightened: beneath the broad, sharp broadlights of Wyndon Stadium, he glows like a golden star.

The little star. Their little prince. But he is not so little anymore: he is _fifteen_ , the ghosts of a beard tickling at his chin, brows thick and sharp and ever keen, and for the first time he feels like it’s the right place to be.

He’s no longer the simple boy from Postwick, a lucky nobody of a squirt who toppled a king. He is the next heir, the crown prince, their David slaying Goliath after Goliath after Goliath.

Or, well— 

( Leon regards the sharp blue eyes on the opposite side of the pitch, narrowed and full of fire. )

There was only ever one Goliath, huh?

* * *

The first time he meets Raihan, his hands are full of just fainted Trapinch and Goomy, locs a mess over his snotty face, eyes wide and round and glimmering with tears over his first loss.

They are barely a decade old, only months into their first league, just minutes after Leon’s victory. Leon had been lucky.

If anyone was a force of nature— it had to be Raihan. With gleaming eyes, razor sharp focus, and an army of baby dragons, it’s as if he’s face to face with a storm. Goomy knew water type moves: a grave oversight on Leon’s part, and for the first time in all his five ever battles, Leon finds himself cornered. Desperate. He’s messy— but with a well aimed Dragon Breath, Goomy falls, and Leon finds himself victorious once again.

But it’s different this time. His eyes are alight, breath quick, heart thrumming within the cage of his chest, the thrill still coursing through his veins like liquid fire— and he didn’t want it to stop.

And ever since that day, he doesn’t think it has.

Raihan, teary eyed and snotty, demands a rematch. But, no, not there, not anytime soon— in Wyndon Stadium, he demands. In three and a half months, at the end of it all, in the Champion Cup Finale, in front of the entire region.

It’s ambitious, they both know. Lofty. Ridiculous. But they’re ambitious boys, with bright eyes and big dreams, and they shake on it, to make it official.

And Leon keeps his promise.

Even on the wide expanse of Wyndon Stadium, his eyes are on nothing but the boy— his _rival_ — standing there on the opposite side of the pitch. Like a pillar, strong and tall, unyielding as he takes in the full force of Leon’s power, as Leon barely withstands the storm of his.

And Leon claims victory again.

And again.

And again.

It becomes their dance. Their yearly waltz, at the end of every season. As Leon gets stronger, Raihan’s never far behind. Even while Raihan becomes Gym Trainer, then Gym Leader— even as Leon begins to shave, change up his team— this is their constant. This is their always. Their yearly routine.

Twice. Thrice. Four times. And then their fifth: fifteen years old, sixteen years old. Their names and rivalry are painted all over the posters in Hammerlocke and Wyndon, and yet it was entirely their own.

Leon never wants it to change.

* * *

As Cinderace's G-Max Fireball barrels towards Charizard, lighting up Wyndon Stadium in a brilliant white flash and searing heat that burns off the tips of the hair on his arms, Leon knows it's all over.

It's like a dream, watching Charizard take the brunt of the attack, his roar piercing his ears and settling something deep into the pit of his chest. His breath stops. His fists clench. 

But he has an audience watching, and the people deserve one last flourish from their king of ten years.

( Leon wonders, with a still breath, if _he's_ been watching.

How _he_ feels about all of this. )

Publicly, he takes his loss with grace. Privately, he storms into the locker room, a storm roaring cold in his chest, something wet and hot at the corners of his eyes.

Raihan is waiting for him there.

His throat is lodged. His lip quivers. Arceus, he was still a child, wasn't he? This wasn't how a rival was supposed to act. Especially not a rival of _ten years_. Lift your chin, Leon. It's just your first loss. It was bound to happen.

Instead he sniffles, and wipes at his face with clenched fists.

"I'm sorry."

His words are croaked, soft. His teeth grind against each other, and he turns his face away, afraid to see his rival's face.

( _Is he disappointed? Angry? Upset?_ )

"I failed you. You—"

" _You_ failed _me_?" Raihan's snort of disbelief is enough to Leon's head, eyes wide and expression dubious as Raihan tugs down at his headband, eyes stormy. "I was the one who went up against her first. I should've stopped her. But I didn't."

Leon tries to wrangle the lump in his throat with a thick swallow. "But... but I should've still beat her! You've been defeated by Melony plenty of times, right?"

The reminder makes Raihan huff. "Melony's different."

"No, she isn't. And you're not the one who lost for me, right?" He feels the tears threatening again, bleeding into his voice, and Raihan turns to look at him in mild alarm. "The loss is mine, and mine alone. I'm sorry..."

"What are you apologizing for?" Air puffs through Raihan's nose as he steps towards him. It sounds like a scoff, and a sigh. "'S not like you did anything to me. Gloria just beat you."

"It's not like that." They both know it. "The finals..."

_Those were supposed to be theirs. Leon promised._

Arceus. They didn't even get to battle this year— not properly, not in the finals, like they had all these years. Something in Leon deflates. 

"Hey."

Leon lifts his head. Raihan's expression is soft, and sturdy as ever. He offers one hand, using his free one to snag a pokeball from his belt, flicking it up into the air. Leon's battled him enough to recognize it anywhere— it's Flygon's.

"Let's head out into the Wild Area. Just you and me. One more battle: just like old times. Who needs a big ol' fancy stadium like Wyndon, anyway?"

There's a playful smirk playing on Raihan's lips, and Leon swallows as he searches his face, quiet for a second. Eyes flickering to his hand, a small smile tugs at the edge of his own, and he carefully takes his outstretched hand and intertwines their fingers.

"Of course. You're on."


End file.
